


Haunted

by Arfang_Red



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Unrequited Love, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:59:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arfang_Red/pseuds/Arfang_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>...if he could just wallow in this world his mind created, he is perfectly content. Here in this arms, where he would rather be than anywhere in the world. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=M).



> I am really in a hurry to put this up and am currently annoyed with the intricacies of posting a new work with AO3 (even if it is deadly useful). I think that putting this up as it is will make me _move on_ and continue with my other works that I can, hopefully, put up here.
> 
> This is **unbeta-ed** , **unBrit-picked** so I apologize for the mistakes you find along the way. I will clean it up when I have the time though.
> 
> For M, good byes are always painful but sometimes they are necessary so that closure will be found.

 

A year had passed after...after that. Gregory Lestrade is standing in 221B, curious eyes studying the place, he will get the cases Sherlock have finished before that happening. His last visit was eight months ago and that time, Sherlock's name has been cleared after an inquiry was called regarding his case. That time, DI Lestrade's contribution and involvement was certainly large and it did not go unnoticed that he was wrongfully suspended in his job because of his close involvement to Sherlock Holmes and consequent admittance of said person in the supposedly private matters of Scotland Yard. Gregory Lestrade was then promoted as Chief Detective Inspector, replacing the then 'defective' Chief DI Quinn.

 

After the promotion, their pub times have dwindled. Apparently, the ex Chief DI have left a lot of unfinished work to do which inundated Greg with mountains of paperwork. John did not mind though, the Yard seems to have improved after Greg's installment as Chief DI.

 

"Nothing seems to have changed much, mate." Greg observes and John hears the implication - that repetitive implication- and inwardly scowled though he was sure his face did not reflected any of his feelings.

 

"Its his flat Greg -"

 

"He gave it to you John, along with all his worldly possessions so-"

 

"- and I would like to respect the dead." John continues doggedly, as if Greg did not interrupt him. Greg's face suddenly softens in concern and John almost rears back, he still hated being a recipient of anyone's concern.

 

"It has been almost a year, John. I guess it is alright - more than alright - to move on." Greg says gently, still looking at him in concern as if he will suddenly whip out a Browning, put it in his mouth and pull the trigger if Greg will not get his point through.

 

Greg will never understand though, just like he have never understood it and when he did, it was all too late. He cannot act upon his small but very brutal realisation.

 

In the middle of tea, Greg's phone chimes. The DI fishes his phone from his pockets and rotates it to for better screen access. The phone emits another chime and Greg scowls.

 

"Sorry John but I have to go, there is a situation in the Yard. You free this Saturday?" Greg asks, standing up and sliding the phone in his pockets.

 

"Yes... I think so? If there is no sudden call from the clinic then I am free." John offers standing in turn and heading towards the coat rack, getting Greg's jacket and giving it to him.

 

"Ta, mate. Send a text if you are free, yeah? There is a game this Saturday night in the pub, Avers plans to give out pints for free around 9." Greg says, struggling to get one of his arms while trying to text on his free hand when the phone chimed again.

 

"Sure thing, mate." John returns. Greg trudged down the stairs and steps out but not before raising his hand in farewell.

 

John goes in and heads to the kitchen, intending to finish the cup of tea he prepared. He sipped the tea, just made in his liking and immersed himself in thoughts.

 

Mrs. Hudson comes in later that evening, bringing a steaming pot of mutton soup. She greets her cheerily, kissing him on both cheeks then proceeding to hug him. They got closer after, well,  after Sherlock fell. She was there, a constant figure during the weeks of shock and made sure he ate and slept well on the three days that he finally grieved for Sherlock's loss.

 

He helps her set up the table, the kitchen cleaner than it ever did, as she bustled around preparing for side dishes. When he uncovered the pot, the smell of the dish was wonderful. It was always a wonderful experience to eat home made food since he can't be arsed to make his own and relies on takeaway.

 

"This smells wonderful, Mrs. H." He wasted no time in telling her. She beams in delight and proceeds to set the small cakes she got from the cafe downstairs.

 

  The soup was as delicious as it smells as expected and John felt warm and full after the meal. They engaged in inane chatter or rather, Mrs Hudson sharing gossip that she heard from Mrs. Turner or some other person.

 

"It has been a year since Sherlock's...well. Why are you still here, John? It must hurt, always remembering your dear friend but why will you not leave? Find another way to live life? You are still young dear boy, you have a lot ahead you." Mrs. Hudson says suddenly, without preamble and the air of quiet contentment dissipated, replaced by a sombre one.

 

John, however, was stunned into a thoughtful mien. The overwhelming feeling of regret and grief barely held at bay. He was once again confronted by his revelation a month after Sherlock fell, the reason why he finally allowed himself to grieve.

 

"You loved him, did you?" Mrs. Hudson tells him gently, laying her withering hand on his arm.

 

"Of course I did. He is my best friend." Denial. It was an automatic response from countless times of denying it, from the times he have said to the numerous others that assumed when Sherlock was still living. He suddenly felt as if he ate ashes, the denial weighing heavily against it.

 

"No, no" Mrs. Hudson shakes her head fervently "You were - are, still - in love with him."

 

The implication of 'in love' was like a slap of reality, everything in him reared back, finally hearing the truth from another person. He felt cornered somehow even if Mrs. Hudson's eyes were not  as piercing as stormy grey ones, it still felt uncomfortable, to be laid bare. The thought that denial has no more room, especially if one is already confronted with the real reason.

 

He still heaved a fortifying breath though, despite all.

 

"Yes, I loved him, Mrs. Hudson. Still do."

 

She gives him a smile, it was a small smile of consolation but it was still devastating. It seemed to him that Mrs. Hudson knew what he is feeling on a personal level. He really did not know about Mrs. Hudson's past but whatever it was, she became stronger. It spoke volumes on the way she has been acting with him this past months.

 

"Will it get better, Mrs. Hudson?" He asks, the grief trickling a bit at the cracks on his defenses. The woman's eyes, gentle it was, dims a bit.

 

"You may move on but never seems the same. It seems that everything is pale because the person that makes it colorful is no longer there. Your heart will continue to beat but it is purposeless for the person it beats for is absent but be strong, John. Don't let his sacrifices be wasted."

 

After cleanup, John shows her out even getting out of his way and walking her to her door. She unlocks it and turns to him, she hugs him, tight with surprising strength of someone her age. She releases him and steps into her own flat.

 

"Be strong, Doctor."  

 

Back into 221B's living room, John is lying on the sofa. His head cushioned by the faded Union Jack pillow. His eyes, though not asleep, are moving fast as if in REM sleep and dreaming. Inside his head, there is a figure, whose back is turned from him, in tight silk shirt and tailored trousers. The figure is cradling something and it turned out to be a violin and suddenly, a melody starts. It was a melody he heard on a chilly December and the man who played - and composed - it was standing on a window, the face set in terrifying blankness he had never seen on the man before.

 

_\--- Every time, I close my eyes it is like a Dark Paradise...---_

 

John steps closer to the man, quietly as not to disturb him play, or hope that he won't turn and face him. But before he can even finish his step, the man turns, the Stradivarius gleaming as he did so.

 

John's breath catches in his throat. He was still as vibrant, still inhumanly stunning as ever. Sherlock Holmes.

 

Sherlock.

 

_\--- And there's no remedy for memory. Your face is like a melody, it won't leave my head. ---_

 

He tries to speak to convey all he missed to say, to admit but all in vain. Sherlock finished his song, its last notes filling the air with sadness, with grief that John's own heart constricted with it.

 

Sherlock steps closer, closer and closer that even a ruler is too short if placed between them. He saw a pale hand with long fingers raise and nearing the side of his face John shut his eyes, unwilling to be hurt and taunted by a figment of his imagination.

 

Oh, but by God, the touch was warm and felt so, so real. He cannot give in and opens his eyes even if his rational mind screams not to, he shoves the screaming voice away. If he can feel this, then let him be the biggest fool.

 

"You are fine, John."

 

He misses that voice and surprises himself for still remembering with perfect clarity the rise and fall of that smooth voice. The touch on his cheek slid to his neck, just above the pulse.

 

He wanted to correct the man, tell him he was absolutely not fine but no words can be borne out of his mouth, struck speechless by those iridescent eyes.

 

"You are fine, John . You are fine, everything is fine." He repeats with fervour and his traitorous imagination supplied that the light touch on his pulse pressed on to a degree.

 

"John."

 

He fervently hopes not to wake up, if he could just wallow in this world his mind created, he is perfectly content. Here in this arms, where he would rather be than anywhere in the world.

 

If he could just...

 

_\--- I don't wanna wake up from this tonight...---_

 

Fin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So... how... how was it?


End file.
